


The Great Desolation

by LadyKailitha



Series: Dark Elf Trilogy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Elf, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, John is Supernatural, Kidlock, M/M, Romance, and Sherlock is not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKailitha/pseuds/LadyKailitha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am thousands of years old. I have fought in many wars. I can remember Rameses II, Julius Caesar, Arthur, Charlemagne, William the Conquerer, the first Duke of Wellington and Napoleon, George Washington. My Name is Jhaan, though you humans bastardized it to John. After great desolation comes a light, that light comes in the form of a consulting detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I love stories with a supernatural twist but there aren't enough of them where Sherlock is normal and John is supernatural. So this my take on it. 
> 
> Here's how to pronounce the words:
> 
> Noctíre- knock- tier  
> Taelár- tay- l-ar, hard on the final syllable. Not pronounced tailor.  
> Kifmer- kif (rhymes with tiff) mere  
> Dúdradae- Do-drah-day

I am thousands of years old. I have fought in many wars. I can remember Rameses II, Julius Caesar, Arthur, Charlemagne, William the Conquerer, the first Duke of Wellington and Napoleon, George Washington, and all this before the Great Desolation. You would call it the Industrial Revolution. After that, however, my memories become hazy and I vaguely recollect the wars I've been in and the people I have killed in the name of Queen and country. Now there's a laugh. Queen and country. Not my queen and certainly not my country.   
  
My flatmate tells me that my memory is terrible. I hadn't the heart to tell him that a mind palace, no matter how grand, will fill eventually. Even if you "delete" the unimportant. And how do you decide what to keep and what to toss away? Having lived as long as I have, memories tend to run together.   
  
But I digress. You are probably curious as to what I am. To you, I look like you. Human. But that could not be further from the truth. Before I tell you what I am, you need to know about my country and its people. You won't believe me, you know. You'll laugh, you'll scoff, you'll shake your head in disbelief, but you have come to me to hear my story, so as my flatmate is fond of saying, "Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." Or something equally wordy and eloquent, but the sentiment is there.   
  
There are three kinds of fae. First, you have the _noctiré_. Beings of no more than a yard, they are full of mischief.  You've heard the old wives' tales of creatures snatching babies, spoiling milk, turning cheese and meat. These are those folk. A wise woman would put out salt to appease these creatures. After the Great Desolation your government classified them as pixies. Now they are forced to be mere gremlins, destroying enemies' machines, weapons, and armor. Spoiling their food and water. What they once did for fun and never that often, they were forced to do day in and day out. Had they been human they would be called slaves.   
  
Then you have the _taelár_. They are about the height of a short human adult, with insect wings. Dragonfly, butterfly, bee, house fly, moth, I could go on but I think you get the picture. Their eyes catlike, their hair golden. Stocky in build, they didn't look like they should be able to fly, but it was the muscle mass they needed, coupled with their hollow bones, that enabled their flight. These were what people thought of when they dreamed up fairies. Kind and benevolent healers. Patient and understanding. After the Great Desolation, the name stuck though slightly altered. Faeries.   
  
Lastly, you have the _kifmer_. Tall and graceful. Bright, intelligent, and fierce. Those blind humans actually accused my flatmate of being one of these. However socially awkward he may be, he is not as cruel as these beings. They are vicious fighters, showing no mercy and destroying all that oppose them. Once great lords over all creation, they fell the hardest in the time of the Great Desolation. The government called them elves.   
  
What am I? I am a _dúdradae_. A half breed. My father was a kifmer and my mother was a taelár to whom he had taken a passing fancy and when she refused him, saying that she already had a mate, he raped her and left her for dead. She lived long enough to give birth to me and give me a name. Jhaan. Only my flatmate pronounces it correctly. Everyone else has bastardized it to John. A common name of little dignity. But what is dignity when they have taken everything else away from you?  
  
Maybe you haven't heard the stories. Maybe you thought they were simply tales mothers told to their children to get them to behave. What you call the Industrial Revolution, we call the Great Desolation. For our civilization was left in ruins and we were forced into the servitude of our shiny new human masters. But I suppose revolution is apt as well. After all, we had lorded over the human race as gods for millennia. We were fools to let their technology develop organically. They learned that cold iron could hurt us, could keep us docile.   
  
They put us to sleep by poisoning our water supply. They came in, bound our king and queen with cold iron and told us to submit or they would kill them. We submitted. We know now that it was a lie, but then we were like frightened children. Now each race is bound with cold iron. For the _noctiré_ , theirs is wrapped around their neck like slave collars. For the _taelár_ , it is twisted around their wrists, a cruel chain of servitude. For the _kifmer_ , they saved the cruelest of them all. They had cold iron inserted into their chest, where it wraps around their heart and spreads across their torso, a spider's web of misery and pain.  
  
But it hasn't just been human wars I have fought in. Oh no. Despite, or maybe because we are bound, we have our own wars. I honestly believe the government encourages it. Let us wear ourselves out on each other so we don't have the energy to figure out how to break free of our enslavement. The last war we had was in 1985. We fought over whether or not we should put the _taelár_ to use trying to find a way to break the spell.   
  
When the war started, I thought it was senseless; the only thing I was sure of was that it would end badly for most of us. And it did end badly for me. But it also brought me to something I never thought possible. Someone worth living for.   
  
That rainy summer's day out in Sussex, the day I met a small curly-haired, bright-eyed, little boy. And he changed my life forever.


	2. War

War. We often fought before the Great Desolation but nothing like how we fought afterwards. There are a few of us who believe that the Government encourages this. The more we squabbled among ourselves the less energy we had to rebel. And we had tried to on a couple of occasions, each with the same disastrous effect. We lost. We always do.   
  
This particular war was senseless. The _kifmer_ are bastards. While they know that it takes a conscious choice to die, it doesn't stop them from going after the _taelár_. I suppose the prevailing thought is to take out the healers so the war doesn't drag on forever. Never mind that each army is only allowed a set number of the taelár. Which is, of course, what makes the _kifmer_ bastards to begin with.   
  
Being a _dúdradae_ had its advantages. I was trained to fight as well as to heal. I am a frontline spears-man, though I do have a sword in case someone actually makes it past my spear to close quarters. With me I also carry two daggers. They were my mother's and were never meant to kill. They are implements of my healers' craft. Where human doctors use scalpels, the _taelár_ use these daggers. And as with fae weapons, they are cold iron. The only thing that can break our skin.   
  
Much of the morning is a blur for me, but I remember fighting to keep the opposing _kifmer_ away from our _taelár_. Sweat poured down my back and brow. Blood crusted in my hair, my blood singing with the tang of cold iron in the air. This was my home. On the battlefield.   
  
I thought I had managed to push them back, but it was a ruse. I had stopped to catch my breath and suddenly I felt it. I looked down and in my side was a sword, but before I could do anything about it, the wielder lifted it up. It brushed against my rib and I screamed in pain. I looked up and the swordsman grinned evilly. That's when I felt it. When he skimmed along the bone, he had broken off the tip inside. I coughed up blood as I stumbled back.   
  
"Filthy _dúdradae_ , you should have been wrapped in cold iron and dropped into the Channel," the _kifmer_ growled. He lunged forward and grabbed me by my collar. He whispered in my ear, "But at least your mother was a good fuck." He laughed as he pushed me to the ground.   
  
I got up and scrambled away from my father. I ran blind and somehow I must have stumbled through one of the portals into your world, for suddenly it was pissing rain when it had been a clear summers' day only moments before. While England is known for such things, the Underland is not.   
  
I hobbled through the underbrush, my hand pressed to my side. When I could move no further, I found a mostly dry spot under a tree and slumped against the trunk. I tried to take in air, but my lungs burned from the torment of the wound and my attempts to escape my fate. So, I did what any good soldier would do, and swore in every language I knew.   
  
Above me I heard a small voice say, "That was French, German, Spanish, Italian, Farsi, Arabic, Latin, and some language I've never heard before. Is it made up?"   
  
I looked up to see a small boy standing in front of me, his dark eyebrows furrowed over icy blue eyes in confusion. His curly dark hair stuck to his forehead at odd angles and I tried not to laugh. Not just to spare the boy his feelings, but because it would have aggravated the gaping hole in my side.   
  
"It's not made up, it's Coptic," I told him.  
  
"Ancient Egyptian?" he asked skeptically.   
  
"Very good," I coughed. "How old are you?"  
  
The boy frowned. "No has spoken that for a couple hundred years, at least."  
  
I had to laugh that time, though it quickly turned into a cough. "No speaks Latin either," I informed the youth.  
  
"Doctors and scientists do," he argued.  
  
"They may use it on a daily basis, but they don't _actually_ speak it." I smiled when he grudgingly accepted that.   
  
"Where did you learn Coptic, then?" the boy tilted his chin up obstinately.   
  
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."  
  
He crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. "That's what everyone says. Or that I'll understand when I'm older. No one tells me anything, I'm smart. I'm five."  
  
I blinked at him slowly. If I had pegged an age for dark-haired young one it would have be older, seven or eight. At least. He was tall for his age with intelligence shining through those icy blue eyes.   
  
I leaned forward. "Can you keep a secret?" He nodded. "I leaned Latin from the legionnaires and Coptic from the pharaohs." His eyes went wide. He opened his mouth and then closed it when nothing seemed to come out.  
  
After a moment, I could see the little wheels turning as he thought of something to say. Finally he huffed, "Prove it."  
  
I smirked. "Come closer."  
  
He moved as close as he could without standing on my lap. I removed my hand from the wound and his eyes lit with interest instead of revulsion.  
  
I chuckled, "You really are something special, aren't you?"  
  
The boy leaned back a little then, a frown creasing his brow. "You'd be the first to say so."  
  
I cocked my head to the side, "What makes you say that?" I asked concerned.   
  
"No matter what I do, Mycroft's gone and done it first. Done it better, even."  
  
I huffed out a short laugh. "Your older brother I take it?" He nodded, mutely. "Well, you get to see this first, then."  
  
He leaned in close. While I had been talking to this bright young thing, I had been slowly working out the shard with my mind. Once it was out I concentrated and soon blood vessels closed, tissue knitted back together, and skin stretched out over renewed muscle, leaving only a shiny scar in its wake.   
  
"Do you believe me now?"  
  
"Why couldn't you do that before?" he asked, still skeptical.  
  
I maneuvered my hand so he could peer into my open palm. He looked at the bloody tip with interest.  
  
"Do you know what that is?"  
  
"A small piece of ferrum," the dark-haired youth huffed with pride at knowing its chemical name.   
  
"Very good," I praised and he preened. "It was preventing me from healing myself."  
  
"Are you a vampire then?" he asked.   
  
"That would be silver, but good guess. Of all the creatures you lot came up with, I am grateful that those _don't_ exist."  
  
Finally he made the correct connection. " _Taelár._ "  
  
My eyes went wide. Most humans would have called me a faerie. "Where on earth did you learn a word like that?  
  
"I found a book about them in my father's library. I read it. It was very sense-sen-ation-al." His face screwed up at the word.  
  
"Sensational?" I asked patiently. He nodded. "It didn't have any facts at all. It kept saying things like 'we believe' or 'we surmise'. That, and it said they were evil. I had never met anything that was truly evil." His face scrunched up again. "And I doubt my father knows nice people."  
  
I was impressed by his wisdom. "And what make you think they aren't nice?"  
  
"Because Father isn't."  
  
I rocked my head back like I had been hit. A boy his age shouldn't know something like that so absolutely.   
  
"Does he hurt you?" I asked as bile rose up in my throat. The boy nodded. "What is your name?"  
  
"Sherlock," he muttered.   
  
"Your full name, Sherlock." I shouldn't be doing this, I thought.   
  
"Sherlock Alexander Holmes."  
  
I got up on my knees and he scuttled back a bit. "Sherlock Alexander Holmes, I grant you the blessing of a _dúdradae_. You will be protected." I leaned forward and kissed his forehead.  
  
He touched his head with his fingers, his mouth open and his eyes wide. He pushed himself up and dashed back out into the rain. He vanished into the mist and he was gone.   
  
That was only the first time I met this outlier known as Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll be happy to note that I miscounted finished chapters and have one more after this one. 
> 
> And I blame Assassin's Creed 4 for this chapter. 
> 
> Also the place they're at I know only via Google.

Family. I suppose it is important. That's what I have been told anyway. But I don't think the teller had ever met my family. My father hates me for being born to the woman who spurned his advances. My mother is dead. Her mate hates me for being the cause of her choosing to end her life. Or so he believes. For all I know, he may be right. My sister hates me because I am a _dúdradae_. And not for the normal reasons my kind is hated.  
  
You see, as with any half-breed I have encountered, neither side is very welcoming. Both sides are too proud to admit that such things happened. Whether through rape as was in my case (and sadly in most cases) or from a love match. Though rare, the latter does occur. But despite the animosity felt toward the children, they are trained in both the fighting and healing arts. Not training them isn't an option. It would be like trying to stopper a hurricane. Just as a _kifmer_ must fight and a _taelár_ must heal. I realize that that concept must seem foreign to you. It would be like asking a horse to fly or a hawk to run on all fours than to ask a fae to go against its nature.  
  
And yet, that was exactly what my sister wanted. She wanted to be able to fight like a kifmer. In my foolish youth I attempted to teach her until we both grew fed up with the constant failures. I stopped teaching her and she turned to drink. Not alcohol. We can drink a German or an Irishman under the table and laugh as they fall to floor. The alcohol gives us a buzzed, happy feeling. No, for us, it is caffeine. Coke, tea, coffee. You name it, if it has it, we can get drunk on it. (Not chocolate, though. That's a myth.) Regardless, she turned to drink and lives in a perpetual state of drunkenness.  
  
So, my family consists of my father, who lives in a state of rage and indignation; my step-father, who lives in a state of apathy and sorrow; and my sister, who lives in a state of disappointment and drink. And Sherlock's family wasn't really any better.  
  
The next I saw him, the day couldn't have been any more different. The sun was shining gloriously over the white sandy beaches of Bamburgh. I was there visiting a friend when I saw a familiar dark-haired figure. His dark curls flopped over his eyes and he would now come up to my chest should he stand in front of me. He wore blue and white striped trousers that appeared to be raggedly cut off at the calf, a white dress shirt that had the sleeves ripped off, a black bandana over his head, and bright a red sash on his waist. In his hand he brandished a sword and was waving it at a surly teenager.  
  
The stranger was older than Sherlock, by at least five years. He was rounder than the other youth, with piercing dark blue eyes and thin auburn hair. He seemed intent on ignoring the sword-wielding pirate in front of him.  
  
As I neared the boys, I heard Sherlock call out to his brother. "Come on, Mycroft," he groused. "You promised."  
  
The other boy huffed as he got to his feet. "Fine," he murmured. "If it will keep you out of trouble for five minutes."  
  
Sherlock laughed as he watched Mycroft putting on his pirate gear in total seriousness. First went on the long purple sash, then a large hat with matching purple feather. He took off his shoes and pulled on a pair of black leather boots in their place. He stood and tucked his own sword into the sash. I chuckled. All he lacked to fit the perfect pirate stereotype was a fancy coat.  
  
"Ah, Mycroft…" Sherlock sounded disappointed. "What happened to the eyepatch? It looked good on you," the boy flattered.  
  
"I'm not wearing it," the auburn-haired youth huffed. "Not after last time." I could only imagine what the little boy had done.  
  
His brother just giggled, clearly unrepentant. "So which pirate do you want to be today?"  
  
"You know I prefer privateers," the older boy puffed up his chest in pride. "No outlaws for me. No. Pillaging, stealing, and plundering for Queen and country, now that is something I can get behind."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, never mind that once the Queen so graciously revoked their marques most of them happily jumped over to piracy."  
  
"Ah," Mycroft raised a single finger. "But not all of them."  
  
His brother rolled his eyes again, "Fine. Sir Francis Drake or William Death?"  
  
"As much as Sir Francis appeals to me, he had a nasty habit of keeping slaves. So William it is, though I detest his last name."  
  
"Captain Death it is! And I will be the dread pirate William Kidd."  
  
This time Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Avast ye, matey," he droned, pulling out his sword and waving it listlessly.  
  
"Put some backbone innit!" Sherlock shouted, affecting a "pirate" accent, or what he thought was one, anyway. He moved into what I vaguely recognized as a fencing form. I didn't know the name, as it was never something I cared to learn, but it was clear that Sherlock did not feel the same. Fencing requires grace and speed, two things I may lack, but things my young friend clearly had in spades.  
  
A gleam entered Mycroft's eyes as their fighting took on a competitive edge, and he finally immersed himself in the game. "The Battle of the Two Williams," as I was calling it in my head, waged across the beach, into the water and over the rocks. All fun dropped away, however, when the brash young pirate climbed a particularly high rock.  
  
"Come down from there! Sherlock, it's too high!" But his little brother just laughed. "Sherlock, it's too high!" Sherlock began to dance on the rock much like the Fool of Tarot, except he knew fully where the edge was and laughed gleefully at the thought of danger. "Don't be foolish!" Mycroft admonished. When the younger boy refused to get down, the older one huffed, "I'm telling mummy." And with that the teenager dashed off for the house nearby.  
  
I had progressively gotten closer while watching the drama unfold and was positioned at the base of the high rock when the youth leaped off with reckless abandon. And straight into my arms. He laughed in delight as I moved to untangle us.  
  
"You know, when I granted you protection, I didn't mean for you to be so impetuous." Sherlock finally deigned to look at the person who had cushioned his fall.  
  
"My taelár!" he exclaimed, happy to see me. I was glad that our previous encounter hadn't frightened him. I was also amused at his use of the possessive pronoun.  
  
"Hello, Sherlock," I said, smiling at him.  
  
He folded his arms in front of his chest. "You know my name, but you haven't told me yours."  
  
"Well, that was rude of me, wasn't it?" The boy nodded. "My name is Jhaan."  
  
"Jhaan," he repeated. It was like he was tasting it. Before I could ask him what had been happening since our last meeting, I heard the sounds of hurried footsteps and turned to see Mycroft trailing a tall woman with curly auburn hair and piercing blue eyes. (And yes I could see that far, my eyesight is better than yours.)  
  
"Sherlock!" she called as she came up to us. She turned to me and then back to her son. "Have you hurt this man?" she asked pointing my direction. The dark-haired boy shook his head and she decided not to take his word for it as she asked me, "Are you well, sir?"  
  
"Oh, I'm fine. I wouldn't have lived this long if a little boy could take me out." She looked at me, confused.  
  
Her youngest son rolled his eyes. "He's a soldier, mummy. Can't you tell?" he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Of course, he only knew about that due to our prior meeting; no real deduction on his part. But she didn't even ask how he knew.  
  
Mrs. Holmes turned to me again, "Well, thank you all the same. I don't know what gets into him these days. Honestly, I have never seen a more impulsive child in all my years. Mycroft was never like this at his age. No, Mycroft was such such a sensible child. So quiet, not like Sherlock. He makes so much noise." I looked over at her boys and both were shifting uncomfortably. I bristled at the the implication that a good child had to be seen and not heard.  
  
"Violet!" I heard a man call from the house. "You and Mycroft get your arses in here, now. Leave the little shit out there. That will teach him not to go dashing about like some street urchin." Violet nodded in my direction and then dashed off for the house, not once looking behind to see if either of her sons followed.  
  
I turned to her eldest. "Does he hurt you as well?" I asked him.  
  
Mycroft looked down at his scuffed up boots as if they were to blame. "No. Mostly he threatens to hurt Sherlock if I don't comply. Though he hasn't physically hurt Sherlock in years, he still does other things like locking him in his room, refusing to feed him, taking away his violin. Things like that." The older boy looked ashamed.  
  
I nodded. "I know you're still young yet, Mycroft, but you need to stand up for yourself and your brother, because your mother never will. She's too afraid of him, but you can't be."  
  
Mycroft nodded and looked at Sherlock briefly before turning to make his way to the house.  
  
I sighed, watching the elder Holmes brother trot up the beach. When he reached the house, an older man, tall and round like Mycroft, came out and grabbed him by the collar. They had a brief conversation before going into the house and leaving Sherlock behind.  
  
I looked at the boy, who had not said a word since the little comment about my occupation. "Come along, Holmes," I said lightly, hoping to make him smile, but he continued to stare at his feet.  
  
"Sherlock?" I asked, worried.  
  
He looked up at me and I could see tears rolling down his pale cheeks. "Can't you bless them, too?"  
  
I knelt down in front of him and took his arms into my hands. "I can't. God. I wish I could, but I can only give it to one person at a time. As long as that person lives, I cannot bestow it on another."  
  
The boy nodded woefully. "I just want to protect them, too."  
  
I pulled him into my arms, "I know, love. I guess you'll just have to find more mundane ways of doing so, okay?"  
  
"Okay," he muttered into my shirt.  
  
I pulled away and took his hand. "Come on, then. I'll introduce you to my friend. He's a silkie," I put my finger to my lips, "Shh, don't tell. The government thinks we are the only magical creatures on the island." His eyes lit up like starlight.  
  
"He and his wife are staying in a cottage just down the way. I was swimming when I saw you and your brother."  
  
"Is his wife a silkie, too?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"No, silkies have to mate with humans. They can't mate with their own kind."  
  
The dark-haired boy frowned. "That sounds stupid. What happens if they can't find humans to mate with?"  
  
"Then they die out. It's sad, but that just the way it works. I have seen it happen far too often in my long years."  
  
"How old are you?" he asked.  
  
"Eons. Not old enough to remember you lot running around in caves, but I do remember the height of ancient civilization."  
  
Sherlock nodded as we finally made it to the small cottage where I had been staying. I led the way into the house with a now very cautious boy hiding behind me. I introduced everyone. I explained the situation to my friends and they were more than willing to let Sherlock stay with them overnight.  
  
After a while Sherlock began to relax. He turned to me and stage whispered, "Does she know she's pregnant?" All eyes turned to him.  
  
"How did you know that?" I asked, but the boy just shrugged. "Yes, she does. That's why I was asked to come and visit. To make sure things were going well." The dark-haired youth nodded.  
  
But he had impressed our hosts and they were delighted with him. So Sherlock spent the night in peace, enjoying himself. Before I left to take him back to his brother, the silkie gave him a whale bone to keep. He tucked under his shirt so his father wouldn't see it.  
  
We walked back in silence. I hated leaving him there, but the fierce determination on Mycroft's face made it easier to bear. As I walked away, I wondered when we would meet again, as it seemed our Fates were intertwined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may recognize the caffeine=bad for elves from Mercedes Lackey, note that the similarities are strictly accidental. After all, there is nothing new under the sun. 
> 
> And I may have thrown in a reference to the 1994 movie "Persuasion". ;)


	4. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Christmas chapter which was written and posted on ff.net before Christmas. My muse took the line, "He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners." and ran with it. 
> 
> We'll have two more chapters until the official meeting in ASiP and then from there things start to get hazy. I will promise you Moriarty and Adler, (as I have plans, oh do I have plans) but I won't guarantee all the episodes from the first two seasons. 
> 
> And as I am a heathen that had the misfortune to have been born in the US I won't see the new season until later this month. But I'm not sure if the story will change to reflect the new season. Most likely it won't.

Christmas. That time of year when families get together in the name of peace and goodwill and try and kill each other over plum pudding and roasted goose. Christmas is by far the most amusing holiday you lot have come up with. You took all our "pagan" symbols and applied them to your Christ and then took over our winter holidays, smashed them together into one and called it your own. You even took the name of one our more prominent celebrations and applied it to the season. Does Yuletide sound familiar? Yeah. That was us.   
  
It was Christmas time, the next I saw my dark-haired friend. One of the big Holmes family to-do's. And they need security when they have that many people from the government, and from noble and wealthy families in one place. With being the pretentious bastards they are, they only wanted the best. Which meant my team, and my team means two other _dúdradae_ and a _kifmer_. The _kifmer_ was our "commander." And oh, how we hated him.  
  
The ballroom was awash in greens and reds and golds and it made my eyes hurt and my head ache. I wanted nothing more than to get stoned off my ass drunk to make through this nightmare. But our masters were clever; the only drinks available were those that would get _them_ drunk. Alcohol. So I set out to get at least buzzed on my breaks. Hoping that the fuzzy feeling would blur the lines enough to make the night tolerable.   
  
But alas it was not meant to be, because before I could take my first drink, I spotted a tangle of boys picking on another boy. The group parted enough to see the tormented, and I spotted a mass of dark curls. Sighing, I set down my drink and moved toward my young friend.  
  
The boys were preparing to beat him up and I knew what had drawn my attention. The protection spell. Usually it works by dissuading the target from abuse but sometimes it needs to use other methods. Like calling for help, and this time it picked me. I got to the boys just as the leader was about to throw the first punch. I caught it with my left and I looked up under the swing into the boy's eyes.   
  
"I don't think you want to be doing that," I told him, my voice was friendly though my eyes were not. The leader looked around at his friends but they weren't coming to his aid. No one wants to mess with dúdradae security. Even if they didn't know exactly what that meant. They only knew we were special forces and that always struck fear and respect into them.   
  
"Why don't you boys run along, eh? Leave this one alone." Gone was the friendly tone, replaced with cold, hard steel. They looked around at each other before dashing off, leaving a very angry Sherlock in their wake.   
  
"I could have handled it. I don't need help!" he hissed at the floor, keeping his eyes glued to his shoes.   
  
I looked him over. "The spell said otherwise, lad," I informed him, crossing my arms in front of my chest. His eyes snapped up to my face.  
  
"Especially from you!" he spat, full of venom. I stepped back, blinking. I almost didn't recognize the lively youth in the spiteful creature before me. Gone was the bright-eyed boy, full of adventure. His eyes were cold and dead, hooded under dark brows. More like the ocean in a storm than starlight. It pained me to see it. His clothes were rumpled, his hair was wild, and despite the straight spine, his shoulders were rounded in defeat. He was far too thin, more like a half-starved scarecrow than the growing boy he was meant to be.  
  
"That damn spell only works on physical abuse. It doesn't work against taunts, jeers, and neglect! I am alone. You left me alone!" Sherlock pounded on his chest as he began to scream. And me? Well, I was crying. I put my arms around the gangly youth and held him close. He clenched my shirt, uncertain whether to hold me close or push me away. I eventually made the decision for him and pushed us apart gently.   
  
"Watson!" I heard call as I was about to speak. I winced. I hated the surname the army gave me when I was formally inducted into their ranks. Which I believe was sometime after the Germans began the London Blitz.  
  
Sherlock looked at me curiously. "Watson?" he asked.  
  
"It's my 'last name'; can't have the enemy wondering why some of us have only first names and start digging into it."  
  
"Watson!" the voice called out again. "You get your arse over here!"  
  
"Look, Sherlock, I've got to go. But, meet me in the library tonight and we'll talk, alright?" The dark-haired teenager nodded and dashed off, as I would later learn, in the direction of the library. Of course there was library. In place this large, I'd bet they had two or a very big one.  
  
I jogged back to the start of the hall where my C.O. was standing. He grabbed me by the front of my coat and dragged me to the main ballroom.   
  
"This is where you are supposed to be," he snarled. "Do I make myself clear?"  
  
"Yes, sir. Just finished breaking up a fight, as per my orders, sir." My chin went up, my spine straightened, and my heels clicked together.   
  
"Jumped up little shits, the lot of them. God. I've had to break up my fair share of tonight as well. No control, these jackanapes."   
  
"Yes, sir," I agreed.   
  
"Dismissed."  
  
I saluted smartly and got out of there as fast as I could. Once I was far enough away that he wouldn't hear me, I growled long and low. I wanted to scream in frustration but I had a job to do. I strolled along the outskirts of the ballroom, looking for the first sign of trouble.   
  
And I found it. It just wasn't the trouble I was supposed to be looking out for, namely drunks, ne'er-do-well's, and would-be assassins. Of course assassins were the real reason we were there but we often spent the time saving them from themselves. But I digress. The trouble I had found came in the form of Mr. Holmes grabbing Mycroft's jacket lapel and pulling him in close.   
  
Seeing him up close, I couldn't help but compare the elder Holmes to his two sons. He was tall, standing over Mycroft by an inch or two, their build the same. They had the same thin, straight hair, though Mycroft's was auburn like his mother's while Mr. Holmes's hair was dark like his youngest son's. But the biggest difference between the two men was that Mr. Holmes demanded respect, while Mycroft clearly commanded respect. As even though Mr. Holmes gripped his son's jacket tighter, Mycroft remained calm.   
  
As I neared, I heard them speak.   
  
"You find that wastrel brother of yours and you bring him here. I will not have him embarrass me again this year."  
  
Mycroft bowed his head, "Yes, sir." His tone was submissive, but as I got in close I could see the twinkle of mischief in his eye.   
  
"So, why are you still here?" the older man growled and his son merely pointed at the fist still grasping his jacket. Mr. Holmes looked down and then pushed the young man away rom him. The auburn-haired man only stumbled a step or two before he righted himself. He brushed the wrinkles out of his dinner coat and turned on his heel, strolling out of there like all they had done was merely talk.   
  
I continued my rounds and made sure to end it close to them again when Mycroft returned. Which he did about twenty minutes later. Without his brother.  
  
Mr. Holmes was not amused. "I thought I told you to bring your brother back here?" he snapped at the other man.   
  
"He said and I quote 'I was told to stay here and this is where I am staying.' I even tried dragging him like you suggested, but he merely dug in his heels and flopped to the floor in a dead weight." Mycroft rolled his eyes to show his thoughts on the childishness of his teenaged brother.   
  
"Who the hell told him to stay in the library?" Mycroft merely shrugged his elegant shoulders.   
  
I stepped forward. "Would your son be a young man about this tall?" I raised my hand to a couple inches above my head. "With blue eyes and riot of dark curls?"  
  
"Yes…" Mr. Holmes agreed, sounding suspicious.   
  
"Then I am who you are looking for. I told him to stay in the library to avoid the boys that were picking on him."  
  
He eyed me warily. "Come with me _dúdradae_." He turned to his son. "You stay here and play host. God knows someone has to." I looked over at Mycroft and saw that he was looking at his toes, his face a dark cloud. I wanted to ask what was wrong, but the elder Holmes had already strolled off. I hastened to catch up.   
  
"Excuse me, Mister…." I inquired.  
  
"Holmes. Siger Holmes. That other boy was my eldest. Going into politics. Like there is any money in that," the burly man scoffed. "Business is where it's at. But at least he some kind of ambition, not like my youngest."  
  
"And where is their mother tonight? Wouldn't she better at this?" I asked as I hadn't seen her all night.  
  
"Probably, but she died of cancer last year. Peas in a pod, those two. Completely useless. But she could talk Sherlock out of his hidey-holes."  
  
I worried my bottom lip to avoid saying something that might come back to bite me in the arse later. Not that I would regret it, but you should never go asking for trouble. I couldn't have been more grateful, then, when we reached the library.   
  
Siger threw open the double doors and sauntered into the room. Sherlock jumped to his feet and his eyes darted back and forth between me and his father.   
  
"Right," the boy's father started turning to me. "Now, you tell my son to get out there and stand up to them like a man."  
  
"No."  
  
I don't think anyone had ever said that word to him in his recent memory, because he blinked in confusion. "What do you mean, no?"  
  
"I mean, I will not tell him to go back out there. The spell won't allow it." My face spilt in a feral grin.   
  
Siger's face clouded. "So you're the _dúdradae_ that has been protecting him since he was five. I knew there must have been something like that by the third time I was convinced to punish him differently than I intended. You take it off, you tosser!" And when I stood there, he added, "I command you!"   
  
My expression darkened and the tendrils of my power encircled me and then exploded, reaching out toward the businessman. Mr. Holmes staggered back while Sherlock stood stock still, his jaw hanging open.  
  
"Let's make one thing abundantly clear. You do not hold my leash. Far greater men do that. You are but an insect in comparison. You cannot command me." Then in the blink of an eye I was close enough to whisper in his ear. "Now, listen very carefully, you worthless pile of flesh. You leave this boy alone. He is special in ways you will never be. He is mine. You _can't_ have him!"  
  
Siger blinked and nodded. I patted his cheek. "Now run, you little shit. Run." And he did. He scrambled away from me and ran from the room without a single glance back. I looked over at my young friend, who was still in shock. I chuckled and that brought him back to the real world.   
  
"What. Was. That?"   
  
I shrugged. He didn't have to know everything. Besides it was more fun this way. I assumed, however, that he was going to press the issue, so I was a little surprised when he let it go. Perhaps he was more shocked than I thought. He did ask me other things and we talked the night away. Mycroft came and checked on us twice, but both times he merely poked his head in and then left without a word.   
  
I don't know what was said to my C.O., only that he never came looking for me that night, nor said anything after. Far too quickly the night was brought to a close, and we said our good-byes.  
  
"I know things are tough now, Sherlock," I told the dark-haired youth, "but some day you will find someone who sees who you are on the inside, and you will never be alone again."  
  
He shook his head, disbelieving.   
  
A couple months later I learned from the paper his father had died. The police were saying suicide. He had run himself off a building screaming about a dark elf chasing him. The headline read "Prominent business man rushes to his death, raving like a mad man." I hoped that this meant things would be better for Sherlock.  
  
I couldn't have been more wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little a bit of Mr. Holmes whump! because my lovely beta old ping hai wanted to see John take out the Elder Holmes.


	5. Crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter just for you! And another soon on the way with thanks to my lovely beta, old ping hai. Not only does she help with grammar and punctuation, she helps me make sure things make sense to everyone that's not me. She also helps get past blocks in my stories. She really is a marvel.

Crime. Despite what you may think, we have our share of it. Our society isn't perfect. We don't sit around singing songs and looking pretty. We have thieves, rapists (of course), liars, cheats, swindlers, frauds. And while we can't be killed, forced to give up our immortality, it is possible to do a serious amount of damage either through magic (which is the most effective) or through cold iron; we call this act murderous intent.   
  
Even in our wars, we aim to disable. But this? This is pure hatred. To seek out someone with the intent that were we not immortal, they would kill us. It's not easy to prove, but we've had our share of these creatures. I wish I could say that they were all from the _kifmer_ but, alas, even the other races have known such animosity.   
  
We have a council of judges and force of protectors that act as our police. Our justice system is not unlike yours, but if I were pressed, I'd say you learned it from us.   
  
Crime has always been a part of Sherlock's adult life. I wish I could say he was always on the side of the angels, but that, my dear friends, would be lying. When next I met him, he was firmly entrenched into that wicked devil known as drugs.   
  
It was pissing rain, which was just my luck. I get a little bit of leave time from the fucking desert and home is dark and dismal. I pulled my collar up against the torrential downpour and continued to cuss out the weather.   
  
I was trying to make it to my dingy little flat from a pub night out with the boys, when I felt a strange little tug in the direction of the alley. I frowned, looking into the dark abyss to my right and I would have moved on, not having seen anything, if it wasn't for the tug that had now become insistent.   
  
"Shit!" I knew what that meant. I pulled my dinky little pen light out of my jeans pocket and tried to shine it into the gloom. I ducked into the backstreet, squinting through the darkness and rain, trying to find my charge. My small light barely pierced the blackness. I was about to give up, when I literally tripped over him. I shined my torch down and the sight before me made my heart weep.  
  
Sherlock's hair was matted and stuck to his head. His clothes were raggedy and hadn't been washed in god knows when. They hung loose about his now almost-skeletal frame. I knelt before him, and he looked up at me, bleary-eyed.  
  
I sighed wearily. "Come on, mate. Let's get you somewhere warm and dry, shall we?" He merely stared at me as though I was a figment of his drug-induced haze.   
  
"Dear god, what did you take?" I asked, now more than a little concerned. He just giggled at me.  
  
I hoisted him up on to my shoulder and made my way back to my flat. It took longer than I would have liked, as Sherlock's body would lurch and pitch at the weirdest angles and at the worst possible moments. Finally we made it up the stairs and into my living room.   
  
I left him slumped on the sofa and then I got the fire started. Once it was good and blazing, I hurried back to the drugged man, who merely giggled at my attempts to make him less…well, less floppy and all over the place.   
  
I rubbed my hands over my face as I contemplated my options. Some human "experts" claim that addiction is a disease. I wish that was true, but as far as my magic is concerned, it's not. Someone would have cured my sister centuries ago if it had been that easy.   
  
It seemed my only options were to get him warm, dry and fed and then wait for the inevitable crash. After that came I could cure the physical effects of his withdrawal. So I got to work.   
  
The first thing I did was change out of my own wet things. I needed to be in top form and the discomfort and the added weight would slow me down. Once I had taken care of my own needs, I focused on my friend.   
  
I peeled him out of his wet things and immediately binned them. I left his underthings on after seeing they weren't too bad in terms of dryness and wear. I pulled out his phone, wallet and keys and set them on the table next to the couch. The phone miraculously still worked despite the soaking it just got. I wrapped him in blankets and added a hot water bottle for good measure.   
  
I rifled through my flatmate's things; he was a normal human who was currently still in the field and wouldn't be home to notice his missing things for another six months or so. He was taller than I was, but not quite Sherlock's six feet. I pulled out some jeans and a loose t-shirt and brought them to my charge. Who, when I returned to living room, I found completely passed out. I checked his vitals to insure that he wouldn't keel over on me and was mildly pleased with the verdict. It wasn't normal, but at least he wasn't going to die on me, either.   
  
I thought about food and knew, due to the fact that both me and my flatmate had been gone, there was but one can of beans and judging from the smell, one very moldy loaf of bread. That just wouldn't do. I hated going back out in that weather, but Sherlock would need food. And myself of course.   
  
When I stepped out of my flat, the rain had slackened and it was barely tolerable. At least this time I remembered my umbrella. I hurried back in case Sherlock had awakened in the interim. He hadn't, thankfully.   
  
I put the food away and wrote my companion a note telling him what had happened and to not panic. Feeling pleased with the results, I went to my room and slept.   
  
I woke up to the idiot panicking. I could hear thumping and stumbling and thrashing about. I sighed and made my way to the living room, tying the sash of my bathrobe as I went. When I got there, the sight before me caused me to laugh out loud. For there stood Sherlock, legs trapped by the blankets, flailing his arms as he attempted not to fall. He had one arm in the t-shirt I had left for him and in the other hand was mobile phone.   
  
His blue eyes snapped up to see who was laughing at him and he promptly fell to the ground. Once he had gotten himself untangled, he glared up at me. "Should have realized it was you. No one else would have given a damn. Or lived in such a dismal little flat."  
  
I gestured to the blankets and shirt lying in a heap around him, "Do I want to know how got so tangled?"  
  
A faint blushed tinted the dark-haired young man's cheeks as he muttered, "No."  
  
I went and made tea. When I returned with two cups, my friend had gotten dressed. I realized that I had made an error on the shirt. While it had been loose on my flatmate, it was certainly _not_ that on Sherlock. For starters, it barely grazed the top of the jeans, flashing a bit of skin when he moved. And for another, it was so tight across the chest, I could make out the barest hint of his nipples.   
  
The jeans thankfully took away from the effect the t-shirt was having, as they looked almost comical. They were tight, not in a sexual way, and came three inches above his ankles.   
  
He was pulling on his shoes when I put the cup of tea next him. He stood up.   
  
"Oi! And where do you think you're going?" I asked, putting my hand on his chest and pushing him back on to the couch.   
  
"You're like a bad penny. Always turning up." I glared at him. "Alright, fine. I was on my way to get more drugs. Obviously." He rolled his eyes at me.   
  
My face went from dark to positively stormy. "Oh hell no. Spell or no spell, you could have _died_."  
  
Sherlock looked up at me in shock. "I thought the spell protected me from harm."  
  
I ran my fingers over my face. I was sure how I could explain this to him in a way that made sense.   
  
"It does. But it can't stop you from harming yourself."  
  
He rocked his head back like he'd been slapped. "I-I just…I just want it to stop." He looked so distressed.   
  
I knelt in front of him. "Stop what?"  
  
He ran his fingers through his hair and began to pull on the curls. "This constant noise. The sights, the sounds, the smells. Everything bombarding me with information. I can't turn it off. The drugs- they help. They slow things down."  
  
I reached up and pulled his hands from his hair. "It's alright, Sherlock. I can't even imagine what that must be like. And I'm thousands of years old. Right now I can do something for your other, more pressing worries." He looked up at me confused. "The itchy feeling under your skin. The headache that is beginning to pierce you behind your eyes. The churning feeling in your stomach. I can make that go away."  
  
His eyes widened as understanding dawned. "You'd heal me?" I nodded. "Will-will it hurt?"  
  
I let go of his hands to stroke his cheek. "No, sweetheart. Not at all." I brought up my other hand to firmly take hold of his head. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the ills I just described. One by one they vanished into the void. Once I was done, Sherlock slumped forward on to my chest.   
  
"Thank you," the dark-haired young man muttered.  
  
I laid him back down. "You need sleep." He nodded and then drifted off to sleep.   
  
Later that evening he accused me of putting him to sleep. I explained that the exhaustion plus the ravenous feeling he had was part of the healing process. The body needed energy and fuel to recover and will demand it.   
  
When I handed him the stew I had made while he slept, he merely grumbled that it was my fault he was so hungry before tucking and finishing it off quickly. I said nothing when he held out his bowl for more. He was about to start on his third helping when his phone shrilled.   
  
"God damn it. I knew it was too good to last," Sherlock muttered. I raised I questioning eyebrow. He sighed. "My brother has deigned to inform me that if I am not at Regency Park within the hour, he will call the police on me."  
  
"He'd do that?" I asked.  
  
"Yes, he would. The fat oaf." The tone was bitter and harsh.   
  
_Okay_ …. So apparently in the eight years since I had last seen Mycroft he had gained weight. And the brothers had had a falling out. I never could get either brother to tell me what had happened between them, in all the years I was to know them.   
  
"Alright, then," I told him. "You finish up that bowl and then we'll get you to Regency Park. We can't have the cops coming after you."  
  
My young friend returned to his bowl, but he merely picked at it.   
  
"Hey, it'll be okay," I said, trying to encourage him.   
  
"You always say that and then things get worse," he said pouting into his bowl.   
  
"Perhaps the universe is storing up all your good things to happen all at once," I said, smiling.   
  
"That just ridiculous," he muttered, but went back to eating.   
  
Once he was done, I dropped him off at a park bench to wait for his brother. As I was leaving, a wind brushed through my hair. I could taste the wind of change and feel the hands of fate, guiding it.   
  
Just then I heard a dog barking and I turned around. A dog had decided to make Sherlock's ankle his chew toy and its poor frazzled owner was desperately trying at the same time to get the dog to heel and apologize profusely. I was about to walk over and help out my young friend, when I realized that the tug of the protection spell was conspicuously absent. I smiled at the pair and walked on.   
  
You should ask Sherlock to tell you the tale of the _Gloria Scott_. He tells it better than I do, if you can get him to tell you, that is. How that fateful day in the park turn his destiny toward that of a consulting detective.   
  
The other young man was good for my friend, but as with all good things, they must come to an end. I just wish their parting hadn't driven Sherlock back to the drugs.


	6. Interlude: Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta for getting through this slog of a chapter, because seriously it was a beast. I just hope it makes sense. Though generally she'll tell me when it doesn't so I'm going to have to trust her on this one.

Magic. The world is full of it. And while humans can't use it, it still effects your lives in ways you can't possibly imagine. And there are all kinds. I have mentioned the fae and the selkie, but there are djinn and dragons. Well…not so much in England anymore. You kind hunted the dragons to near extinction some time around the middle ages. And of course the djinn are found in the middle east.   
  
As I explained earlier, magic is one of the best ways to hurt us. Cold iron does the job, but only to a point. Like with any weakness inherent in a race, not every member reacts to it the same. You have some where it is merely an irritation like a bug bite and others where the slightest contact is so agonizing that were they touched with it, they would consider dying rather than live with the pain.   
  
But magic? That is different. We can do magic, but we have no defense against it. I hear you ask, how can that be? Your lot makes weapons, guns and their bullets, but you don't have a defense against getting shot. And don't tell me you have bulletproof vests because one, you don't wear them on a daily basis; and two, you have ammunition that can tear through those vests like a hot knife through butter. Nothing is infallible.   
  
I was on patrol when it happened. It was supposed to have been a simple exercise. We were told there were no hostiles in the area. Some days, in my darkest moments, I wonder if we were betrayed.   
  
I was one of two medical personnel on hand, the other was nurse Bill Murray. Until that day I thought he was a human like you. I'm still unsure what he was. I have theories, but that's all they are. I can say that whatever he was, he used his abilities, his magic, his whatever, to save my life.   
  
How, you wonder. Especially after all my talk about it having to be our choice to give up our immortality? It's simple enough, the utter destruction of my physical form. Did you ever wonder where ghosts came from? And it's not as though finding another body is easy. But I'm getting ahead of myself.   
  
We were several miles from base when the sun began to set. Just when it hit the horizon, it blazed, blinding us. And in its final glory came the volley of gun fire.   
  
We sought cover behind rocks and hills, but this was prime ambush territory. Bullets rained down on us as we fought back. Most of what happened is hazy to me, but I can still feel sand on my skin and in my eyes. The taste of copper in my mouth and its acerbic smell burning my nose. My ears ringing from the gun fire and screams. The screaming started as orders and descended into shrieks of pain and agony.   
  
I was running around patching up wounds the best I could. It was too risky to heal out in the field. It required a massive amount of concentration, something that was highly lacking in battle. I just hoped that what little I could do would get the ones we could save back to base so I could work my healing on them.   
  
I don't remember what it was that caught my attention, but just ever so slightly I turned to the right and my left shoulder exploded in extreme anguish. I remember it feeling so unbearable. It felt as though it was leeching into my very soul, tearing it apart. I can't even recall if I screamed. I must have because Bill appeared above me. He began shouting in a language I had never heard before. It sounded old. Older than even the fae. There was a flash of light and then complete and utter blackness.  
  
When I awoke I was told that I had lost too much blood and that because none of my lineage could be found other than my sister, I was being sent back to England for transfusion. You see, like you humans have blood types where you can only receive blood of that type, we have can only be given blood of the same lineage. Far too many of mine had chosen to pass on and there were only a handful of us left. While I was alive (if you could call it that) I was unable to move, and speech was slow and slurred.  
  
The next time I awoke I was on a medical evac. plane on my way back to the land of fog and rain. The flight was long and boring with the mysterious Bill as my only company. He was a scrawny-looking kid with more freckles than there were stars in the sky. His eyes were a dark emerald green. His hair was a fiery red that stuck up in all directions. He didn't look like the type that the army would take, let alone one that could make it through basic training.   
  
My savior was poor company, as he refused to utter more than two words together. Bill kept an eye on me the whole time as if he expected that I would do something foolish if he looked away. It was unnerving.   
  
The only thing I could make out as something other than a grunt was when we landed in Portsmouth. There was a helicopter that would take me the rest of the way to London, and as they were wheeling me out to it, he leaned over and said in a thick Irish accent, "Watch yourself, laddie; there is somethin' coming for ya. Somethin' big and bad. I won't be there the next time you fall."  
  
He vanished from my side before I could ask any questions. When we had taken off I was able to glance out of the window, and there looking up at us flying by was a ginger-furred wolf. I shook my head, and when I looked again the wolf was gone and it was Bill waving good-bye.   
  
_A faoladh?_ Impossible. Werewolves don't exist. _Do they?_  
  
We reached the hospital where a very drunk Harry was waiting for us. The nurse doing the procedure looked Harry over skeptically before she shrugged and got down to business. As the transfusion went on I got stronger, and Harry became sober.   
  
Out of the blue she said, "You remember Clara?" Of course I remembered Clara, she was the human woman that my sister fell in love with five years ago and married a couple years after that.   
  
"I better remember my sister-in-law," I said, hoping to keep things light.   
  
"Well, she's not anymore," Harry growled.  
  
"She's not what?" My head was still fuzzy from the rush of having blood in my system again.   
  
"Your sister-in-law. We're getting a divorce," Harry's voice had a steely edge to it.  
  
I had progressed to the point where I could move again and I used the opportunity to rub my hand over my face. "Harry…"  
  
"Don't you 'Harry' me. You haven't the right. The bitch had gall to give me an ultimatum. Her or the drink. I mean, who the hell does she think she is? How dare she make me choose. She'll grow old, fat and die and I will remain fair and beautiful forever. She should feel lucky I deigned to stoop to her level in the first place."   
  
The procedure was done and the nurse gave Harry an odd look before she left, taking her equipment with her.   
  
Once I was alone with my sister I hissed, "What is wrong with you? You know not everyone here knows what we are. You were told that when they brought you here. I know they told you."  
  
Harry waved her hand flippantly. "Oh, who cares about that hag. It's not as though she's going to say anything." I gave up then. There was just no talking to her when she gets like this. I was never more grateful then when they escorted her out. I knew there was no turning to her for help when I got released.   
  
After I finished my physio, they sent me to a therapist. Apparently all military personnel had to do a psych eval. upon returning from active duty, and since the lovely government weren't keen on people asking why certain soldiers were exempt, that meant I had to do it, too.  
  
It had been three months since coming back to England, and still I was forced to see my therapist. There seemed to be no end in sight.   
  
"How goes the blog?" Ella asked at our latest appointment.   
  
That god damn blog. It was ridiculous. The thought of that stupid blog made me want to tell her I was a several thousand years old magical being. I wondered briefly what she would do; probably have me sanctioned.   
  
"Yeah, good."  
  
"You haven't written a word, have you?" she pressed.   
  
I indicated her pad with my chin, "You just wrote 'still has trust issues.'"  
  
"And you read my writing upside down. You see what I mean? You're a civilian now and writing what happens to you honestly will help."  
  
"Nothing happens to me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faoladh. An Irish werewolf. Known for protecting children and wounded soldiers. I just added a wee bit more magic. ;)


	7. Fate: part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. Don't hate me, please. It has been the roughest couple of months imaginable. First and foremost was a move cross-country which had me without my laptop for two weeks. And then once I do get my laptop back, I sprang my wrist. And then just when I get it all typed up and pretty, my internet goes down for a week and a half. This chapter was then slowly beaten into submission by old ping hai and me over this last week, (she'd been busy and I'd been sick).
> 
> And then this is just HALF of it. But at 2700+ words it ends at a nice break. We plan to begin work on the next half next week and hope to have it out to you before week's end.
> 
> And in other good news, the next chapter (after part 2) is half way typed up. So, there's that. 
> 
> My deepest apologies for keeping you waiting. I hope the following chapters make it up to you.
> 
> Also, props out to Ariane DeVere for the post-script of A Study in Pink. I use to go to Planet Clair for all my quoting needs, but they only have half of The Empty Hearse up and none of the rest of season 3. That said, however, this IS an AU, there will be canon divergence. A lot of it.

Fate. I've believed in it since meeting that boy all those years ago. If you had told me before that rainy day that I would meet the one individual who would change my world forever, I would have laughed. It was supposed to be just another day on the battlefield. If you had then told me that after nearly getting annihilated in Afghanistan, the same individual would deliver me from from the clutches of depression and make me live again, I would have punched you. But these things did happen, and when Fate shows her hand, she always wins.

As I was walking (well, I say walking, but it was more like limping) back from my therapist, I cut through a park, intent on getting home as soon as possible, so I could be depressed in the confines of my own flat. My shoulders were hunched against the world, and my eyes were focused on the ground in front of me, hell-bent on avoiding anything in my path that might trip me up, when I heard someone call out my name.

"John!" My step faltered but I pressed on. "John Watson?" I sighed and turned around. There was no avoiding this conversation then. A round, cheerful man was waving me down.

"Mike Stamford," the chubby man probed. And when that failed to register with me, he added, "We were at Uni together." _Oh, right. This must have been one of the times that government forced me to get "up to date" in their "medical science"_.

He smiled warmly at me. "I know, I got fat."

I fought to come up with something that wasn't a lie and that wasn't rude. I failed spectacularly. Mike was one of the few mortals who knew of the fae's existence. A fae, a _noctiré_ in Mike's case, had befriended the young Stamford in his grandmother's garden. A story very similar to Sherlock's.

"I heard you were abroad getting shot at, what happened?"

I stared him frankly in the face and said, "I got shot." His eyebrows rose and he had me tell him the story. He wouldn't settle for anything less. He knew better than most the implications of that simple bare statement. It felt good to talk to someone who actually knew what I was and why the incident still haunted me. I shouldn't have needed the help of a _faoladh_ to have survived. (If that's what he was, but in my mind there can be no other explanation.) I felt the ambush was a setup despite reports by the military to the contrary. There was a nagging sense of betrayal that did not abate no matter how many times I read the dispatches from the field.

"Couldn't Harry help?" he asked.

I had forgotten that Mike was unfortunate enough to have met my sister. I shook my head, "Yeah, like that's going to happen." I sighed. "I just need to get out of my military-funded bedsit, but I can't on my army pension."

"Have you thought about a flatshare or something?"

I laughed bitterly. "Who'd want me as a flatmate?"

Mike chuckled quietly. "You're the second person to say that to me today."

I reared my head back slightly in surprise, "Who was the first?" And with that simple question my world, which had been careening out of control since I had been sent home from the battlefield, suddenly righted itself.

I just didn't know it at the time.

He led me back to Bart's Hospital and up the elevator to one of the labs. He stopped a young woman to ask if _he_ was still there. When she nodded in the affirmative, he opened the door to the right and walked straight in. It looked nothing like what I remembered.

"A bit different from my day," I told him before I set my sights on the other person in the room. He was tall with dark curls that covered his face. He was testing something on a slide, pipette in hand.

"You have no idea," Mike replied.

And then _his_ voice filled room, "Hey, Mike, can I borrow your phone? I haven't got a signal on mine." He held up his phone as evidence. I stood stock still. I wondered if he would recognize me.

"Here, you can borrow mine," I spoke up. He looked surprised and then walked over.

"Thank you." He took the phone from me and began typing on it. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"What?" I was shocked but before I could say anything more, the young woman we had seen out in the hall came in with a cup of coffee. And then he proceeded to insult her, and she went off without even the barest whimper.

He took a sip of the coffee as he walked back to the microscope he had been using.

"Afghanistan. How did you know?"

He ignored me. "I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days; would that bother you?" "What?" "Flatmates should know the worst about each other, don't you think?"

"Who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did. I told Mike I must be a difficult person to find a flatmate for and here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly home from military service; it wasn't that big of a leap."

Mike chuckled. Apparently, he liked this part of introducing people to the younger man.

Then Sherlock was grabbing his coat and scarf and heading for the door. "I have a nice place in central London in mind, between the two of us we should be able to afford it. Tomorrow evening at 7." He pulled on his coat and tied his scarf. "If you'll excuse me, I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Wait. I don't know where we're meeting and you don't know anything about me." Hey, I wasn't lying about that last part. I could have become a serial killer in the time since we had last met. Although, that probably would have made me _more_ interesting to him.

He told me about my limp, my therapist, my sibling's drinking problem, and my wound. I stood there in shock.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." Sherlock winked and then just like that, he was gone.

I looked over at Mike and he just cracked a smile. "Yeah, he's like that all the time."

_All the time_ , dear god, what happened to him?

***

That night I looked him up on the internet. _Well, I'll be damned_ , I thought. _The kid came out all right after all_. He was a little rough around the edges but that could easily be excused by the life he'd had. All grown up and startlingly gorgeous. He was still too thin for my liking, but he had filled out his frame quite nicely.

I hurried to the address at the appointed time and was pleased when he stepped out of the taxi just as I reached the door. I was introduced to the landlady, a wonderful woman named Mrs. Hudson, who was giving him a deal because he had helped to insure that her husband got the death penalty in Florida.

She asked if we needed two bedrooms and while _I_ hastened to assure her we did not, Sherlock blushed. But before I could ask the dozen or so questions on my mind, a grey-haired gentleman came in and demanded help from my friend with a case of serial suicides. The man's name was Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

Sherlock leapt for joy and then was gone. He came back briefly only to drag me along with him. He shoved me into a cab and we were off before I could blink.

He let me ask him questions on the ride over. I asked about his job, his ability to read me like he did and where we were going. And yet somehow we managed to avoid the most pressing question in my mind: did he remember me, the way I remembered him?

I met the inspector's team and I wasn't impressed. Unprofessional, rude, and arrogant beyond belief. It was a pleasure watching Sherlock take them down a peg or two by announcing that two of them were having affair.

Then I saw my friend in his element and the words "amazing" and "incredible" just flowed out. I don't think anyone had told him that before from the way he blushed. But again he was off after shouting "Pink!" and I was left with a cane and no way to get home. I asked the sergeant for directions and I got a sermon on how bad Sherlock Holmes was and to stay away from him along with it.

I walked back to the main road and after three taxis ignored me completely, I decided a bit of walk wouldn't be too bad. I limped down the street and every phone I passed rang, including one in a phone booth. Finally after seeing one stop when someone else went to answer it, I picked up the phone in the phone booth.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end was smooth and arrogant. "There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

"Who is this? Who's speaking?" I growled.

"Do you see the camera," he pressed, sounding annoyed that I couldn't follow instructions.

"Yeah I see it," I huffed.

"Watch." And the camera moved to focus on me. "There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?" I spotted it and it too moved to focus on me. "And finally, at the top of the building to your right."

I ignored that one and instead I snarled into the phone, "How are you doing this?"

"Get in the car, Doctor Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." I was about to ask what car, when a nondescript, black number pulled up to the curb. I got in the back and was met by a pretty young woman. Who ignored me in favor of her Blackberry and gave me a fake name. _A spy_ , I thought. _Just lovely_.

We pulled up to a large abandoned warehouse and I was told to get out of the car. I was just grateful the vehicle didn't pull away. "You know I have a phone," I said, as I neared the figure who was still shrouded in darkness. "I mean it was very clever and all, but you could have just contacted me on my phone."

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet," he raised his umbrella to indicate the warehouse around them, "hence this place."

I got close enough to the man and stopped. I sighed.

"Hello, Dr. Watson. Your leg _must_ be bothering you, please have a seat." Again he pointed with his umbrella.

"I'd rather stand." I recognized him. Oh boy, did I recognize him. He was tall. Taller than Sherlock. Not by much, but enough. He had filled out well. His auburn hair was beginning to recede. His blue eyes were sharp and calculating.

"You don't seem frightened," he smirked.

"You aren't very frightening." _Especially considering I've seen you cower before your father._

"Ah, the bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

Deciding to play along with this weird charade, "Who are you?" I asked.

"A friend," his voice was smooth.

"Of Sherlock's?" Considering what I had seen over the last couple hours, I can't believe he went for that particular title.

He chuckled. "You've met the man, just how many friends do you think he has?"

I frown. _So…you think you're_ my _friend?_

"I'm the closest thing he has to a friend," the tall man continued.

"Which is?" _I hate master manipulators_ , I thought fiercely.

"An enemy." He tilted his umbrella up to look at the tip, unconcerned.

"An enemy?" I asked in surprise. That was even stranger title to use.

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

I looked around me, "Well, thank god you're above all that." Adding in my head, _Drama queen._

My phone went off (yes, I have a phone -- "iron" and any other metals aren't the same as "cold iron", I don't react to them the way I do "cold iron", they don't hurt me), and I looked at it.

It read:

**Baker Street.**

**Come at once**

**if convenient.**

**-SH**

"Am I interrupting something?" the gentleman asked.

"No, not at all."

"I would make the usual offer of money, but something tells me that you would reject it out of hand."

My eyebrow arched. "Of course I would."

Again my phone sounded in the dark warehouse.

**If inconvenient,**

**come anyway.**

**-SH**

I rolled my eyes at the text and put it back into my pocket.

"You seem familiar, Dr. Watson. Who are you?" I opened my answer him, but he stalled me with a wave of his hand. "I've read your file. I know what you are. They never did give you a formal name for what you are, did they? We call the others elves and faeries and pixies. Not your kind, though," he sneered.

I clenched my fists and gritted out, "You know what the slur is. I know you do."

The tall gentleman smirked. "Ah, yes, halfing."

"Yes, yes," I drolled. "Let's make fun of the ancient being who taught Genghis Khan trick riding. Had tea with Benedict Arnold. Now there was a poor fellow. Convinced him to defect. Those stupid Americans had treated him so badly. I danced with Queen Maria in the court of Louis XIV at the Palace of Versailles. And supped with Maximilien Robsepierre."

"The last two are a bit hypocritical, don't you think?" he scoffed.

"Where's your British empire? Something I've learned over the years. Empires fall, Mycroft Holmes."

His head rocked back in shock. "So I do know you. Where do I know you from?" I shrugged.

Mycroft fought to regain the ground he felt he'd lost. He pulled out a little brown notebook and began thumbing through its pages. "Your therapist isn't aware of your supernatural nature, is she?"

I frowned. "Your government doesn't like paying for the ones that have been 'read in,'" I said.

"Says here you have trust issues," he murmured, reading off one of the pages.

"Of course I have trust issues. I have met some of the world's most famous betrayers and my life has been a series of treachery and deceitfulness against myself. You'd have trust issues, too."

"Could it be that you have decided to trust Sherlock Holmes?"

"Who says I trust him?" Again my phone rang out in the hollowness of the wide and empty building.

**Could be dangerous.**

**-SH**

"Are we done here?" I growled.

"You tell me."

_Yep, done._ And I turned around to walk back to the car, but he called out to me.

"I would warn you off Sherlock, but I can tell by your left hand that you wouldn't listen."

I whirled around. "My what?"

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." It wasn't a question. "Show me."

I held up my hand and he walked over to me. He put the hook of his umbrella over his arm and reached out to grasp my hand.

"Don't."

He gave me a look that said, 'Really? You are going to continue to be resistant?' And I gave him my hand with a huff. He examined it briefly before letting go and stepping back.

"What's wrong with my hand?" I asked.

"When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battle of the street. You've seen it already." I glared at him and he just smirked. "Your therapist thinks the tremor is caused by post-traumatic stress disorder." He leaned forward. "Fire her. You are under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You aren't haunted by the war; you miss it." He walked away twirling his umbrella. "Time to chose a side, Dr. Watson."

I silently cursed him with all my being. I returned to the car and told the mysterious "Anthea" to have the driver to take me back to Baker Street, making a brief stop at my bedsit to grab my gun. Once at Baker Street, I hobbled up the stairs as quickly as I could, excitement burning my insides.


	8. Fate: part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is much shorter than the last one, but mainly because I didn't want to break up the meeting with Mycroft. 
> 
> Again thanks to Ariane DeVere for the quotes I have destroyed. 
> 
> Thanks to old ping hai, the most awesome in the world.

I had to admit to feeling disappointed that his idea of dangerous was texting a serial killer. But when I told him about my encounter with his arch-enemy, he merely told me that I had met the most dangerous man I'll ever meet and that it wasn't his problem. I almost laughed.

We went out to dinner and somehow the owner (who Sherlock helped get off of a murder charge) thought I was the detective's date. After a candle and much protesting to the contrary, I tried to find out more about Sherlock's life since I last left him.

"You know," I began. "Normal people don't have arch-enemies."

He rolled his eyes. "Dull. And what do normal people have in their normal lives?" he asked.

"Friends, people they like, people they don't like. Boyfriends, girlfriends?"

"Like I said, dull."

"So you don't have a girlfriend?" I asked.

"Hmm.. girls really aren't my area."

"Oh," I blinked. "Oh. Right. So have you got a boyfriend, then?" He stared at me. "Which is fine."

"I know it's fine."

"So, you're unattached like me. That's fine."

"Look, John, I'm flattered by your interest. But, I consider myself married to my work."

I sputtered and back pedaled. "No. I wasn't asking. I was just saying. It's fine. It's all fine."

I was about ask if he remembered me, but he looked up sharply. "Look over there. A taxi stopped. That's clever. Is that clever? Why is it clever?"

I turned to look, but he admonished me, "Don't stare."

I glared at him. "You're staring," I told him.

"Well, we both can't stare."

And just like that we were off like a shot chasing a taxi through the streets of London. But when caught up to them, the passenger was newly arrived to London from Los Angeles.

Sherlock had pulled out a police badge, not thinking that the man might call an actual policeman. We ended up running home.

It was the most ridiculous thing I had done in years and told him so.

"You invaded Afghanistan," he reminded me.

"That wasn't just me," I huffed, laughing.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock called out. "Dr. Watson will be taking that second bedroom."

"Says who?" I asked between giggles.

"Says the man at the door," he grinned. And sure enough there was a knock at the door. I went to answer it and there was Angelo. He held out my cane.

"Sherlock texted me, said you left this." I took it with a startled glee. I looked back at Sherlock and his answering smile was incandescent.

"Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?" Mrs. Hudson said worried as she shuffled over to them.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock questioned.

She pointed and muttered, "Upstairs."

We went dashing up and saw Lestrade and his team tearing apart the flat. It was a fake drugs bust. I sighed. It meant that he had gotten back on the drugs when he met Lestrade.

"I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational," I said defending my friend.

"John, you may want shut up." I sighed.

"Why?" _Why did you go back?_

"Shut up!" he snarled.

We talked about the missing daughter, Rachel, and he said something insensitive about her being dead a long time; why would Jennifer Wilson still be upset. The whole flat went stone cold quiet.

He turned to me, "Not good?"

I looked at the officers in the kitchen before I turned back to him. "A bit not good, yeah."

He shifted anxiously. "Yeah, but if you were dying ... if you’d been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

I inhaled. "'Please god, let me live.'" And then I breathed out a sigh.

"Oh, use your imagination," he huffed at me impatiently.

"I don't have to." He rocked back on his heels in shock.

We discussed how the murderer may have forced the victims to take the pill. Sherlock went through his deductions and found out that Rachel was her password to her GPS on her mobile phone and then he just walked out. Into a waiting cab. Lestrade called off his team.

I turned to Lestrade, "Why does he do that?"

The DI shrugged. "I don't know."

"You know him better than I do," I said. After all, Sherlock had said that he had known the inspector at least three years ago when he helped Angelo off the murder charge, and the handful of days I knew him does not an acquaintance make.

"I've known him for five years and no, I don't. Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And one day if we are very, very lucky, he might even be a good one." He hovered by the stairs and when almost everyone had gone, he waved off his second. He took a deep breath.

"Look, John, or whatever your real name is, I know a protective spell when I see one and I can tell the caster of said spell. My great-grandmother was a _kifmer_."

My eyebrows shot up. Now here was a rarer creature than even I. When our kind falls in love with a mortal, it is more often than not a _taelár_. But here was evidence that not all _kifmer_ are incapable of feeling. Just most of them.

"And how would you know that?" I asked.

"Still alive, isn't she?" he smirked.

Oh. Well. Okay. Yes, that would explain a lot.

"She taught me when she learned of my desire to be a cop. She wanted to make sure I knew the difference between a supernatural killing and one that isn't. I know that Sherlock has a protective spell on him and that you are responsible." I flushed and opened my mouth to offer a defense, but he held up his hand to stop me. "I not going to tell on ya. I just wanted to let you know that I've got your back. I can cover things up if that little spell causes a bit of illegal intervention."

"Oh." Well that was certainly useful. "Thank you."

He nodded and left after giving me his number. I felt the tug of the spell and I looked at the laptop. _What the hell was he doing?_ I grabbed the device and went dashing to his rescue.

Once the tracker stopped, I texted Lestrade the address and what I thought had happened. The cabbie had pulled up to the college and I had two options, the building on the left or the one the right. I felt the tug of the spell leading me to the left.

I reached the room I thought for sure he was in, but he was in a room in the building across from mine. I screamed as it appeared that that he was going to take the pill. I pulled out the gun that I had been carrying all night (yes, all through the chase after the cabbie, the drugs bust, and the cab ride here I kept it on me) and fired. I lowered the gun and ducked. I couldn't let anyone see I was there. Once I thought the coast was clear, I made my way outside and came up to the police line after I saw the flashing lights.

Sally tried to stop me.

"Sherlock texted me. Is he alright?"

"What do you care?" she groused.

"Someone should," I told her, giving her my best soldier steely glare.

"Right. Fine. He's fine. Apparently, there was a murderous cabbie going around playing Westley and Vizzini from Princess Bride."

"Poison?" I asked.

"Yeah. Two pills. He'd take one and force his victims to take the other."

"Gruesome. So, what happened?" "

Someone shot him."

"The murderer?" I asked, all innocence.

"Yeah. Couldn't have been Holmes, though. The angle was all wrong and there was a bullet hole in each of the windows. Policed their brass, though."

I nodded and then went to stand at the police line. I watched as Sherlock, with a shock blanket placed over his shoulders, talked to Lestrade.

He made eye contact with me and I watched him stutter to a stop. He made some hurried comments before he came up to me, tossing the blanket through the open window of a police cruiser. I saw the look on Lestrade's face, as Sherlock walked over. It was a mix of relief, amazement at Sherlock doing something for someone else, and distress that his offer was to be so quickly taken up.

"Nice shot," Sherlock said smirking. I hedged a bit, but he got me to admit it. He was certainly clever. But there was something about him that got me to giggle at inappropriate things, like chasing cars on foot and at crime scenes.

"You were going to take the pill, weren't you?" I said, shaking my head.

"Just bidding my time until you arrived, my _taelár_." I smiled warmly.

"That was never a true statement," I chuckled.

"Yes, but it was easier to say than _dúdradae_."

"Well, that's true." I looked at him and then cocked my head.

"When did you figure out who I was?"

He grinned at me. "From the moment you walked into Bart's with that silly cane of yours."

Just then a black car pulled up, and out came Mycroft. Sherlock growled and stalked toward his brother.

"Another case solved, how public spirited of you. But that was never your motivation, was it?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock bit off.

"As ever, I am concerned about you," Mycroft explained as if to a small child.

"Well, don't be. I don't need your help."

"Clearly," he said to Sherlock, but was looking at me.

"Go back to playing spies, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes brother pulled himself up and sniffed in disdain. "I occupy a minor position in the government."

Sherlock scoffed. "He is the British government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Mycroft gave out a long-suffering sigh. "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic."

I watched Sherlock storm off before I turned to Mycroft. "Okay, care to explain that?"

"He's always been so resentful. Imagine the Christmas dinners," he puffed out a sigh.

"I don't have to," I muttered and then stalked off, leaving a very shocked Mycroft Holmes behind.

"Hungry?" Sherlock asked as I caught up to him.

"Starved."

"I know a Chinese place that is open until two."

We continued to banter all night until we reached home.

Home. Huh. I haven't had one of those in centuries. It felt good. It felt right. Just like he did.


	9. Rare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my take on "The Blind Banker", well sorta. It is my least favorite episode. Everyone in it must have been on drugs or something, because they ALL do dumb things. 
> 
> Thanks to my ever patient beta old ping hai.

Rare. Sometimes I wonder at the stupidity of those men that bound us. They thought we were the only ones. We aren't even the only fae on the island. Just the flashiest. The most visible and vocal. I have mentioned other supernatural beings, Bill for example. Little did I know that the Holmes brothers surrounded themselves with some of the rarest of us. Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and "Anthea."

I had been working with Sherlock for almost two months when I made my discovery. I don't think she noticed me much before then. After all, when your flatmate is a tall, dark, and handsome man and you are a short dirty blond you tend to get overlooked. 

Of all the people that surround Sherlock, Molly Hooper, mild-mannered pathologist, would have been at the bottom of any list of possible people who might be supernatural. 

We had been working a case for one of Sherlock's university "pals", which turned from a simple break-in to a wild adventure with the Chinese mafia. Sherlock was trying to convince this new detective inspector that the consulting detective wasn't some nosy parker, sticking his nose in where it didn't belong. Sherlock was sure that the two dead men, Eddie Van Coon and Mark Lukas, were smugglers working for the Black Lotus (the Chinese mafia). 

First we had to find someone to let us look at the bodies, and naturally Sherlock thought of his favorite doormat, Molly. I have nothing against the girl. She's very nice. She just needs a spine. She lets Sherlock walk over her far too often. 

We found her in the morgue singing.

_"Departed comrade! Thou redeemed from pain_  
Shall sleep the sleep that kings desire in vain.  
Not thine the sense of loss  
But lo, for us the void  
That shall never be filled again.  
Not thine but ours the grief.  
All pain is fled from thee.  
And we are weeping in thy stead;  
Tears for the mourners who are left behind  
Peace everlasting for the quiet dead." 

We watched transfixed as a shimmering golden glow surrounded the corpse, gently drawing out a white shadow.

Molly whispered to it and we could barely make out the words, "Go in peace to your god, my friend." The shadow cocked his head, considering, and then like a candle's flame in the wind, it was gone. The petite pathologist wiped her brow. 

"That one was close. I thought for sure he was going to argue with me," she muttered, going over the paper work a final time. 

Throughout the whole experience we had stood stock still. Sherlock in confusion at the apparent leave-taking of his senses and me in amazement. The shock rolled over me as I realized what she was.

Molly was an honest-to-god Banshee. And I don't mean those shriveled up hags you see in movies these days, sowing death and destruction wherever they went. No. She was a singer of the souls, bringing peace to the departed. 

Sherlock coughed, drawing her attention to the fact that we were there. She started like a frightened mouse. 

Without taking my eyes off her, I told Sherlock, "Go and get Dimmock. I'm sure Molly would be happy to pull out Van Coon and Lukas. Won't you, Molly?" She nodded and Sherlock looked between us, curious. Deciding he could get the truth out of me later, he flounced off. 

"I'd ask what a nice Irish girl is doing in a place like this," I said, grinning from ear to ear. "But considering _what_ you are, it's not that big of a stretch. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it fits."

She blushed. "So. You know what I am?" Molly asked. 

"From one mystical being to another, Banshee, I'd say you are a very welcome sight indeed," I said as I rolled up my left sleeve. Molly winced sympathetically as she saw the cold iron manacle that wound around my wrist and bled into the veins on my forearm. 

"Does he know?" she asked, indicating with her chin the door Sherlock had recently vacated. 

"About me? Sure, I'm the one that put that sweet little protection spell on him. You? I'm sure he's googling all the possibilities as we speak."

"Let me guess, he'll continue to bombard me with suggestion until we tell him?" she sighed.

"Yep!" I told her cheerfully. 

"Fine, but not until that inspector leaves. He's so stoically human, it would break his poor mind to find out what we are."

I nodded. Sherlock came back with Dimmock in tow and showed off the tattoos on the feet of the dead men, finally convincing the poor man that Sherlock was right. When the man wandered off to start the paperwork, the curly-haired detective turned to us expectantly. 

We told him, and he spent an hour peppering her with questions about her abilities and heritage. She answered some but not others. I had to remind him of the case to get him to leave her alone. She smiled at me wanly as he dashed off. I gave her a small smile before I followed him out. 

***

Mrs. Hudson. I should have guessed what she was or at least come close. From the way we always seemed to have tea and biscuits, despite being "not-your-housekeeper-dear." Or how upset she got when Greg and his team invaded the flat for their fake drugs bust.

When Sherlock and I returned to Baker Street after dropping off a poor shattered Sarah, we encountered a very upset Mrs. Hudson. You see, Sarah (my new boss at the surgery) and I went on a date where we watched (and helped) Sherlock fight off an assassin at a Chinese circus, and then after that we went back to Baker Street. Once we had finally calmed down and Sherlock had dashed off after the book that held the code, the Chinese mafia kidnapped us, thinking (quite erroneously) that I was Sherlock Holmes.

"For shame, John Watson!" she screeched at me as I was hanging up my coat. "Leaving that poor girl alone after such a horrible night. Where are your manners?"

"I offered," I protested. "I pressed. Hell, she all but threw me out. For god's sake, even _Sherlock_ offered to keep watch over her flat from across the street. Which made her even more upset, by the way."

Mrs. Hudson looked only slightly mollified. 

"She was calling a friend when we left. I assume it was to have them come over and keep her company."

Mrs. Hudson and I looked over at him. "Really?" I asked. 

He nodded and our landlady seemed pacified on that front. Then she switched tacks. She went from bristling and angry to worrying and twittering.

"I'm sorry you and your lady friend had to go through that at all, John. If they had come inside, I could have prevented it. But luring the two of you out like that…" she tsked as she went about straightening the room. 

I patted her on the shoulder as she shuffled past me. "It's not your fault, Mrs. Hudson."

"Yes, it is. It is my job to protect 221 Baker Street and its inhabitants," she said with a sniffle. She got out her handkerchief and dabbed her nose. 

My spine tingled as I got the implication that she meant more than her duties as our landlady.

Sherlock's frown furrowed his brow, "What do you mean?" his voice suspicious. 

She looked up at him as though he was being unreasonably slow. "This is my house, and I will protect it."

Again my spine tingled with the feeling of this being more than what it appeared on the surface. I closed my eyes and thought back to what I knew of our landlady. Her near constant hovering. The way she always seemed to be there with a word of comfort and a cuppa. How defensive she got of us to other people. How upset she became when Greg and his team had invaded their home that first night. 

I recalled the few times I had been in her flat helping her out with some chore or another. I searched my memory for anything I might have seen that would be out of place. I remembered a small statuette of a woman on her mantelpiece. The mantelpiece was over the fireplace. Fireplace. Fireplace. Why did that ring a bell? Fireplace=hearth. Hearth. That was closer to the mark. Hearth. Hearth. Hearth. Statue over the hearth. Heart of the home. Protector. 

I looked up in shock and she just smiled at me indulgently. I swore in Latin.

Her expression turned disapproving. "Now, dear, there is no need for that kind of language."

And there it was, that cinched it. "A lar. A bloody lar. Huh. Right here in London. Well, I'll be damned."

"John! " she barked. "What did I just say about language?"

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson."

"Will you both be all right?" she asked. "There are things I need to be doing."

"I think so," I murmured. "Just in shock that my landlady is lar of ancient Rome."

She giggled.

"You trying to tell me," Sherlock growled, "our dear Mrs. Hudson is a minor Roman deity?"

Mrs. Hudson giggled and I added my own chuckle to the mix. 

"She is no more a god than I am, Sherlock," I told the lanky detective. "Romans may have worshiped them, but that does not make them gods."

Mrs. Hudson made a happy noise. "I miss those days. It was nice to be respected for what one does naturally."

"So what can you do?"

Mrs. Hudson cocked her head to the side thinking. "A great many things, I assure you." She raised her hands and bronze light sent a shock wave throughout the house. My innate magic shuddered and I clutched my chest and stumbled.

Mrs. Hudson made a face as Sherlock rushed over to me. "If I ever get ahold of the witch that did the spell that bound your kind, John, I would rip out her black heart."

"What the hell was that?" Sherlock demanded as he helped me over to my chair. 

"That was a protection against evil. The spell that binds John's magic is as black and evil as it comes. But magic is a thing, it can't tell the difference between the evil magic and someone bound by evil magic. I can, however, adjust it." She rolled her shoulders and the light returned in reverse. 

"It's not perfect," she said, hugging herself. "Humans are harder. They often have complex motives. They could be doing evil things for the greater good. Or the reverse, doing good things for an evil purpose. However, truly evil men won't make it through that door. They would find the way blocked."

Sherlock jumped up. "Yes! No more Mycroft!"

Mrs. Hudson swatted at him playfully. "Of course he's welcome, dear. He's family."

Sherlock pouted.

"If evil does manage to break through, I can expel it," she continued to explain her abilities. "I can do small repairs. Cracks in the wall, leaky faucets. I could do bigger things but people tend to get suspicious when broken windows and flooded basements are fixed without a 'professional' coming to the house. So I limit myself to what can be done in house." She sighed heavily. "But I'm getting on in years. If I leave the house, the protections are weakened. Sometimes evil can slip through. I just don't have the sparkle of my younger days."

I stood up. "We like your sparkle just fine, Mrs. Hudson." And I kissed her cheek and Sherlock put his arm around her. 

"Oh, you boys," she said waving us off. But she was smiling. She hastened to make her escape, but Sherlock called her back.

"Yes, dear?"

"Were you out of the house a couple days ago?" Sherlock asked.

"When was that?" I asked him in return. 

"The day you had a row with a pin and chip machine."

"Oh, I remember now," Mrs. Hudson said. "Yes, I was out. I was out getting more of my herbal soothers. Why do you ask?"

Sherlock merely grinned and we could get nothing more out of him. Mrs. Hudson and I shared a look and she went to bed. I shook my head at the strange man I had chosen to live with. He was constantly surprising me.

***

"Anthea" was the name she gave me when we first met. It was continually changing. There was Cassandra, Freya, Hathor, Titania and even the fierce Hindu goddess Kali. I liked her real name, but the one time I used it she threatened to cut out my tongue. She has even forbidden me from writing it here. I told her that I had to call her something, she said that I could call her Verda in my tale, after the greatest of her kind. 

Sherlock and I live perilous lives, it comes from chasing London's most dangerous criminals. It was after one these chases that I learned what Verda was. We were on a case that Mycroft gave us that led us into a situation that almost cost Sherlock his life. If I had been but mere seconds too late…my body shuddered at the implication. 

There were police cars and flashing lights, I recall. The sounds of people talking and moving around seemed muted and faded. I walked around in a haze while Sherlock showed off for Mycroft and DI Lestrade, gesturing widely. I floated, a phantom, walking through patches of people, never quite touching. Always separate. 

I must have been moving faster than I thought because when I finally made contact with someone, I sent them sprawling. That woke me from my stupor. I bent down to see who I had hit. There was Mycroft's PA on her back side glaring up at me. 

"Oh my god!" I cried. "I'm so sorry." I held my hand out to her and after glowering at it for a moment she reached out to take it. I helped her to her feet. The woman dusted herself off and then screeched a cry of sheer panic. 

"My phone!" She dropped to her knees and began to hunt of the lost object. I knelt to help her. It was my fault, after all, that she dropped it. I found it behind the wheel of one of the police cruisers. 

I managed to glimpse the screen and frowned. I looked up at her. "My middle German is a tad rusty, but I'm pretty sure that this message from two hours ago just happened."

She snatched the phone out of my hand and scowled at me. 

"So, you aren't human. What are you then?"

"Let's see, I write in German, I can tell the future, and I'm beautiful. What you do you think I am?"

I cursed. "It's on the tip of my tongue." I snapped my fingers. "Not Fates…damn!"

"Those damn Greeks!" she snarled. "And they are called Moirai. I'm a Norn. There are more of us than there ever was of them."

"Norn? With an 'N'?" I asked. 

"Yes," she hissed. 

"Okay." I decided to let the matter drop, she was obviously sensitive of the subject. 

I cocked my head as a thought occurred to me. "Does Mycroft know what you are?" She smiled a true smile for the first time in our acquaintance.

"Of course not."

I grinned back. "So what's a diviner doing working for someone like Mycroft Holmes?"

"I didn't pick him at random, you know," she huffed.

"I never said you did."

"Sherlock may joke that his brother is the British government, but he isn't far off the mark. They employ him to watch for patterns and to implement plans accordingly. Much like what I do, only he's actually doing it without the aid of magical abilities."

"I've often wondered about that," I pondered. "It seems like there should be some kind of supernatural ancestry somewhere in their line."

"I've looked, and there isn't. They are just naturally that intelligent. Anyway. When your lot got bound, it threw off the balance of power in the magical world of Europe."

I blinked. I hadn't thought what the global effects of the binding of the English fae would have. Without our king and queen to defend us, it opened us to attacks from others. I can see the wheels in your head turning. Why worry about it? If they haven't attacked in the 150 years since, why would they do so now? But you think too narrowly. You think in terms of human years. But that time is a mere drop in the bucket for us immortals. 

She was still speaking. "I realize it's not your nature to think of such things. You are a warrior. But know this _dúdradae_ , a storm is coming. And the supernatural world may be forced out into the open." She walked away just as Sherlock walked up.

"What was that about?" he asked, staring after her.

"A storm is coming."

"What storm?" He furrowed his brow. 

"I have no idea." And we walked off, grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A further explanation of what our lovely ladies are. 
> 
> Molly- Banshee. In Irish mythology their voices sing the souls to the underworld, seen as a sad omen. Sometimes they are seen washing the clothes or armor of soon-to-be dead. Some of the early tales talk about them only appearing around the violently deceased, (like those murdered). Which is perfect for a mousy pathologist don't you think? ;)
> 
> Mrs. Hudson- A lar (pl. lares). These household deities would protect everyone in the house, free or slave. And would help those who were especially giving to the lar. 
> 
> "Anthea" or in this case "Verda"- a Norn. There are three well known norns. Verdandi, Urd, and Skuld. Who represent present, fate, and future. Verda is a shortening of Verdandi. They are often compared to the Greek "Fates" or moirai. Norns are far more numerous. It was said that for every child born a Norn would appear to foretell the child's future.


	10. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please don't kill me. Please? I went through a really hard patch recently and because this story has become something of a life's work with me, it made it hard to write. So, to save my sanity, I decided to split it up among three stories. The next story will probably start with Great Game and finish up either with Hounds or Reichenbach depending how cruel I decide to be to you people.
> 
> So, to make up for all the trouble I've caused, I have written the fluffiest chapter imaginable to end this story with. Thank you so much for all your love and support for this labor of love. Thanks to my lovely beta, who helped me make this chapter worth the wait. And thanks to happilyanon who inspired me to write in this world again.

I paced the sitting room, my phone pressed against my ear. I looked into the kitchen and Sherlock met my eye. He smirked at me. He knew I was losing my battle of wills with my caller. I raised my voice. She raised hers, her voice now making itself heard outside the phone. She said the final words and I deflated.

"Yes, all right," I said, subdued. "Bye." I pressed the button to end the call and brought my phone up to rest the cool metal against my heated forehead.

"Well," I said turning to Sherlock, "That was brutal, if not wholly unexpected."

"Dr. Sawyer, I presume?" Sherlock asked with a smirk.

I paused, wondering if Sherlock had actually referenced something culturally, or if it had been an accident. I opted to think about it later.

"Yes, apparently, nearly dying on a first date automatically prohibits further dates. I even offered to take her on holiday to New Zealand or something. But alas, thus ends the tale of two doctors."

"It was best…well it was the worst of times anyway," Sherlock said with chuckle.

Now that was a cultural reference. "How did Dickens not warrant deletion, but the bloody solar system does?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Literature is often used in games serial killers like to play with the police."

"So you deleted the solar system to make room for classic literature?"

"Why do you always harp on the solar system?" Sherlock snarled.

"You can't tell me that tides aren't important to your work, and that does require some knowledge of the planets."

"I didn't delete the phases of the moon, clearly. Just the rest of it." Sherlock was smug.

"Right," I said shaking my head.

"Well, it was probably for the best," he said. I looked at him, inquiringly. "Ending it with Sarah."

"Oh, how's that?"

Sherlock blushed. I tilted my head to the side and he only looked away. I walked over to him and gently lifted his chin. His eyes stayed downcast.

"Sherlock?" I asked.

"It means you'll stay with me," he murmured.

"You're afraid that I'll leave you?" I asked insistently.

He pulled out of my hand and his hair fell over his eyes. I cupped his cheek and he pressed up into it.

"You are afraid. Oh, love."

"Don't call me that," he hissed.

"Why not? You used to like it," I said.

"When it meant the same thing to me that it means to you. But not anymore." Sherlock stood up and tried to push past me. I raised my hands and placed them on his chest. I could feel his heart beating wildly.

"But I do love you, Sherlock," I whispered into his shirt.

"You love me the way a parent loves a child, John. I know that in comparison I am young to you, but I am not a child. Not anymore." I let him brush by me and into the sitting room, where he began to pace.

"I admired you as child, as one might admire one's hero. But that day at the Christmas party when you spent the night talking to me, that's when these feelings," he said the word like a curse, "began. You told me that I would never be alone, that I would find someone who loved me for me. I hoped it could be you, then I knew, it had to be you."

He gripped his hair. "And then the night I spent on your couch when at university…no one had ever cared for me like that. I was done for. Then I met Victor. He was good friend, but I spent the whole time comparing him to you. How a joke I told would have made you laugh, when he would only give me a blank stare. Or how he would give me an odd look when I would talk about my latest experiment, but I knew you would have leaned in with interest. When he left to go to India, all I could think was, 'John wouldn't have left me like that.' That's when it struck me: for the rest of my life, I knew that I could love only you." He sank into the couch, his head in his hands.

I walked over to Sherlock and knelt in front of him. "Hey," I said barely above a whisper. He looked up, dragging his hands over his face.

"And now I've ruined everything," he said, his voice filled with sorrow.

"Oh, hey now. You haven't ruined anything, love."

The detective glared at me.

"I'll use that word if I want to, thank you very much." He pouted at me. "Do you want to know why?"

Sherlock sighed. "Why?"

"Because, you idiot, I became attracted to you as an adult the same day you fell in love with me. And that attraction has only grown since I've moved in with you. I do love you the same way you love me. I just…I didn't want to push you into anything you didn't want to do."

"What about Sarah?"

"Sherlock, are you aware how old I am?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tossed his hair dramatically. "You've said. Something like a few millennia or so."

"Yes. I've had sex and been with people I don't love. It's called having a libido. I wouldn't worry about it so much." I kissed him on the forehead. He reached up and pulled me down. I landed roughly on his lap and he kissed me on the lips.

Oh.

I kissed him back, tangling my hands through dark locks. He gently laid back on the couch, dragging me with him as our kisses became slow and sweet. His arms wrapped around me, slotting me against his length. Our legs tangled together and he began to rub circles on my back. I moaned against his lips.

"Sherlock," I breathed, pulling my head just far enough to speak. "God, how I've wanted you. For years I've dreamed about this."

He stalled underneath me, his cheeks tinted pink.

I stroked his cheek. "What's the matter, love?"

The detective's blush deepened. "I'm worried I can't compare."

"To what?"

"Several millennia of lovers," he murmured, burying his head in my neck.

"Do you know who Casanova is?"

"Yes, John. I'm not 'spectacularly ignorant' in all things. Famous lover, many conquests, et cetera, et cetera."

I chuckled. "Right, I knew him." Sherlock looked surprised. "Completely rubbish. Most of the people famous for that type of thing are. That includes me, Sherlock. Just because I have experience does not make me a sex god. All it makes me is aware of what I like. Every person is different. And I doubt any of them could compare to the joy of being here with you. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"Good. Now, where were we?" I purred.

"Hmm…I think, right about here…" his hands began their movement south, dragging along my sides until he hit the tops of my jeans. I moaned.

"Yes," I panted, my heart speeding up at the touch.

His hands continued their journey until they rested snugly on my hips. He gripped me tightly and then slowly moved me up his body and then back down.

I gasped. "God, Sherlock! Again!"

He repeated the motion a couple more times, each time I lost a little more grasp of myself. My whole being felt alight with the burning fires of desire. His lips found mine again and I lost myself completely.

When I came to, our naked bodies were entwined, heated and spent. We were slick with sweat and cum. We looked into each other's eyes and began to giggle.

* * *

I'm not sure how many times those first couple of days we would just look at each other and then find ourselves in a tangle of clothes and limbs, panting as we tried to get as close to each other possible. We didn't always cum, that would have been impossible considering the biology, but it was always hot and it was always giggles and laughter. I don't think I've ever laughed this much with a lover.

It was good to see Sherlock smiling at something other than murders, mayhem, and crime scenes. I think my favorite part of those two days was when we would just cuddle on the couch. Not really to watch telly, but just to feel close to each other. To revel in our combined warmth. He would lie behind me and wrap his arms around my chest, drawing our bodies together. Sometimes he would nuzzle my ear or kiss my neck and it would lead to other things, but mostly it was a study in intimacy. Of companionship and devotion. It was wonderful.

The honeymoon phase came to a crashing end when two days later, I got a call from Harry.

I walked to Sherlock and gave him a quick peck on the lips. "I'll be back in the morning."

Sherlock looked up from his experiment. "Where are you going?"

I sighed. "My sister's. She's off the wagon. Detox is going to be hell for her tonight, and I don't want to leave her alone for it."

Sherlock echoed my sigh. "Alright."

Afterward Sherlock told me that Mrs. Hudson came in shortly after I left, tsking at the mess once again.

He watched me go from the window. "Look at that, Mrs. Hudson. So peaceful. Isn't it hateful?"


End file.
